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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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CHRISTMAS SOUVENIR 






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CHRISTMAS 



SOUVENIR 



1893 




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HARTFORD -FIRE -INSURANCE 
COMPANY • HARTFORD • CONN. 



*^^N0V22 1893 I 



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Press of 
Sunshine Ptnji,isHiNr, Company 

PhILAUHLI'HIA 

CopvKiGHT, 1893. All Rights Rhseuvhd 



GENEVIEVE. 




Have you seen a little maiden, 

Quaint and sweet and very fair — 

Violets blooming in her eyes 

('Twas in spring she left the skies), 
Sunbeams playing in her hair — 

Ay, a bonnie sprite from Aiden ? 
'Tis our darling, Genevieve! 

Have you seen a little fairy, 

Weaving web and woof of bliss 

O'er the dwelling where she bides— 

Where her winsome spirit gJides — 
Brewing here and there a kiss. 

When her tiny footsteps tarry? 
'Tis our Uueenie, Genevieve! 



Have you seen among the roses, 
One rare bud outvie the rest — 

All its heart a wondrous pearl? 

She it is — our little girl; 

Pearl of pearls; Love's high bequest, 

Sweetest floweret 'midst the posies, 
Heart's-ease — pansy, Genevieve! 

Have you seen this little maiden, 
In the sunshine — by the way, 

Mignon that we love so well, 

Child or angel, who can tell? 

(She may child to others be. 

She is angel unto me.) 

Heaven guard her night and day. 

All her life with joy be laden. 
Mamma's treasure, Genevieve. 







7* 




til A. . r^^r. 









H, why should the spirit of 
mortal be proud ? 
Like a swift-fleeting- meteor, a fast- 
flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of 

the wave, 
Man passeth from life to his rest in 



the grave. 




The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
Be scattered around and together be laid; 
And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
Shall moulder to dust and toijether shall lie. 





H 4HE infant a mother attended 
and loved; 
The mother that infant's affec- 
tion who proved; 
The husband that mother and infant who 

blessed, 
Each, all, are away to their dwellings 
of rest. 




HE maid on whose cheek, on 
whose brow, in whose eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs 

are by ; 
And the memory of those who loved 

her and praised, 
Are alike from the minds of the living 
erased. 




^)HE hand of the king that 
the sceptre hath borne; 
The brow t)f the |)riest that 
the mitre hath worn; 
The eye of the sage and the heart of 

the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depth of 



th 



e o'rave. 







HE peasant, 



whose lot was to sow and to reap; 
The herdsman, who climbed with his 

goats up the steep; 
The beggar, who wandered in search of 

his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that 

we tread. 




^HE saint who enjoyed the 
communion of heaven, 
The sinner who dared to remain 

unforgiven, 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty 

and just. 
Have quietly mingled their bones 
in the dust. 




So the multitude goes, like the flower 

or the weed 
That withers away to let others 

succeed; 
So the multitude comes, even those 

we behold, 
To repeat every tale that has often 

been told. 




For we are the same our fathers 

have been ; 
We see the same sipfhts our fathers 

have seen ; 
We drink the same stream and 

view the same sun, 
And run the same course our 

fathers have run. 




1 he thoughts wc arc thinking our fathers 

would think; 
From the death we are shrinkin<^ our 

fathers woukl shrink; 
To the life we are clinging they also 

would cling; 
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on 

the win*j". 



1 hey loved, but the story we cannot 

unfold ; 
They scorned, but the heart of the 

haughty is cold; 
I he)' grieved, but no wail from their 

slumbers will come; 
1 hey joyed, but the tongue of their 



ixladness is dumb. 





They died, ay! they died: and we things 

that are now, 
Who walk on the turf that lies over their 

brow, 
Who make in their dwellini^ a transient 

abode, 
Meet the things that they met on their 

pilgrimage road. 




EA! hope and despondency, 

pleasure and pain, 
We mingle together in sun- 
shine and rain; 
And the smiles and the tears, the song 

and the dirge. 
Still follow each other, like surge upon 



surge. 




'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the (h-au^ht 
of a l^reath, 

From the lolossom of health to the pale- 
ness of death, 

From the mldcd saloon to the l:)ier and 
the shroud, — 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal he 
proud ? 





'HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 



Now fades the giimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droninij- flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 
JMolest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow, twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowl)' i:)ed. 




For them no more the blazmg' hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the enxied kiss to share. 



Oft (lid the han-cst to their sickle yield; 

Their furrow oft the stubl^orn ylebe has broke; 
How jocund did the}' drive their team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturd)' stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homel}- joys, and destin\- obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The l)oast of IIeral(lr\, the pomp of Povv'r, 

And all that Beautw all that Wealth e'er oave, 

Await, alike, th' inevitable hour ; 

The paths of Glory lead but to the gra\'e. 

Nor you, ye proud, imj)ute to these the fault, 
If Mem'ry o'er their toml) no trophies raise, 

Where, thnV the lon^-drawn aisle and fretted vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 




Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to Its mansion call the fleetino- breath? 

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 



Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living hre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penur\' repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem oi purest rav serene 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 

Full man)' a flow'r is born to blush unseen 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast. 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; 
Some Cromwell u'uiltless of his country's blood. 



Th' applause of Iist'ning- senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plent)' o'er a smihno- land. 

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 



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Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing x'lrtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of Mercy on mankind; 



The struggling- pangs of conscious Truth to hide, 
To (juench the l:)lushes of ingenuous Shame, 

Or hea|) the shrine of Luxur\' and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Par from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stra\' ; 

Along the cool, sequester'd \ale ol life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their wa)'. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to ])rotect. 
Some Irail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
Implores the passing tribute ol a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply; 

And man)' a holy text around she strews, 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 




For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one lonmn^, lino-'rimj^ look behind? 



On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires: 

Ev'n from the torn!) the voice of Nature cries, 
Ev'n m our ashes live their wonted fires. 




For thee, who, mmdtul ol th' unhonour'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If, chance, 1))^ lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire th\' fate; 




Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 



" There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; 

Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless lov^e. 

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill. 
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree : 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 










THE EPITAPH. 



Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 



Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send; 

He gave to Mis'ry all he had — a tear; 

He o-ain'd from Heav'n — 'twas all he wish'd — a Iriend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 






■:£^^' 







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THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET 




Zbc ®lb ©aken Bucket. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them to view! 




The orchard, the meadow, the deep- 
tangled wildwood, 
And every loved spot which my 
infancy knew ! 




The wide-spreading pond, and the 
mill that stood l)v it, 
The bridge, and the rock where 
the cataract fell, 



^^ 







The cot of my father, the dairy-house 
nigh it, 
And e'en the rude bucket which 
hung in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-JDound 
bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung 
in the well. 






.^' 



That moss-covered vessel I hailed as 
a treasure, 
For often at noon, when returned 
from the field. 







I found It the source of an exquisite 

pleasure. 
The purest and sweetest that nature 

can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands 

that were glowing, 




And tiLiick to the white-pel:)blecl bot- 
tom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the eml)lem of truth 
overflowing", 
And dripping with coolness, it rose 
from the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket arose from 
the well. 





^ > » 




How sweet from the green mossy brim 
to receive it, 
As poised on the curb it incHned 
to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt 
me to leave it, 
Though filled with the nectar that 
Jupiter sips. 





<§_is^A. /Sig l?5> for tl ^e bucket 




\Vi; 



The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hanirs 
in the well ! 







THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 




Zhc mime Blacf^smitb. 

fH NDER a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 







His hair is crisp, and l)lack, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He cams whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not an)^ man. 





Week in, week out, from morn till ni^ht 
You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swinof his heavy sledofe, 
With measured beat and slow, 



Like a sexton rinoing" 
the villai£e bell 
When the evening 
sun IS low. 





And children comino- home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming- forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning si)arks that fl\' 

Like chaff from a threshing- floor. 




■^^--^ 



He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his l:)oys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Smging m the \'illage chon% 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 









It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Sino'iiiLi" in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she Hes ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 




Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task l^egin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done. 
Has earned a night's repose. 




Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast tauo-ht ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thouLiht ! 




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